


LARP, Interrupted

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, First Meetings, Fluff, Humor, LARPing, M/M, Meet-Cute, Nerd Castiel, Nerd Dean, Nerdiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 23:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4368773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He loses his grip on the longsword.  It spins off behind him and Dean hears it connect with a dull <i>thwack.</i>  He turns, hoping that it hit the ground, or a tree, or maybe an unsuspecting squirrel, but no, <i>no, of course not.</i></p><p>“Dean’s managed not only to swing a fake weapon into an unsuspecting bystander, but into the hottest unsuspecting bystander he’s ever laid eyes on.”</p><p>Some meet cutes are nerdier than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	LARP, Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> [thehunterofthe221binthetardis](http://thehunterofthe221binthetardis.tumblr.com/) gave me the following three word prompt: "dragon, misunderstanding, date". In return, I present the Absolute Nerdiest Thing I Have Ever Written. I hope you enjoy it, follower friend!
> 
> Many thanks to my masterwork quality beta team, [betty days](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sadrobots/pseuds/betty%20days) and [kitt3nz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kitt3nz/profile), and to [viscouslover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/viscouslover/pseuds/viscouslover/works) for cheering me on and idea-bouncing with me. I couldn't have done it without any of you. <3
> 
> Please do not repost/copy/duplicate this work to other sites. That's called theft.

“You’ve had a lot of shit ideas, Winchester,” Charlie says as she fights her way out of a bush, “but this is, by far, the worst.  We’re so out-of-bounds, we might as well be plebes.”

Dean sighs as he attempts to hack his way through a branch with a foam weapon.  “Don’t complain about the short cut, princess.”

“Queen.”

“Whatever.  Either way, you’re the one who got us into a surprise round with fucking orcs and then ran out of beanbags—”

“They’re _spell packets_ and I only get twelve of them a day, all of which did absolutely bupkis versus the Shadow King’s honor guard!” she insists, trying to yank her boot free from a particularly petulant bramble.  “I’m not going to stoop to cheating.”

“Sure you won’t,” says Dean, stopping long enough to roll his eyes, “because gods know you’ve _never_ fudged your stats before.”

“It’s okay when you’re playing arcane!  Especially in early levels.”

“If you’re power gaming correctly, then you shouldn’t have to.”

“Look,” Charlie says with a huff, “a level six Wizard doesn’t get to be the Queen of Moons by following the rules.  She gets it by declaring _right.”_

“No, she gets it by flirting with the marshals.”

Charlie shrugs and replies, “Same thing.  I can’t shut this down.”

“So much for the fucking honor system.”  Dean puts both hands on the hilt of his sword and pulls his hardest.

The bush wins, and he winds up comically flailing before falling flat on his ass on a cement walkway. Although Dean is finally free from thorny imprisonment, the foam sword is as stuck as Excalibur.

“Shit, are you okay, handmaiden?”

Dean groans as he rolls himself slowly to a knee.  “‘Tis but a flesh wound, milady.”  With his left hand, he takes hold of the offending branch—currently brandishing his weapon at him in the breeze—and with his right, he grabs his sword again and pulls as hard as he can.

“Wait, wait, Dean, don—”

He loses his grip on the longsword.  It spins off behind him and Dean hears it connect with a dull thwack.  He turns, hoping that it hit the ground, or a tree, or maybe an unsuspecting squirrel, but no, _no, of course not._

Dean’s managed not only to swing a fake weapon into an unsuspecting bystander, but into the hottest unsuspecting bystander he’s ever laid eyes on.

Charlie winces.  “Roll for damage, Dean, and for the sake of the gods, _roll low.”_

Dean has no wit left with which to reply.  Every muscle in his face is frozen.  His brain is misfiring references left and right.  He should be a gentleman, go over and help the dude-sel in clear distress, but that would require figuring out how his legs work.

Because Dude-sel?  Yeah, that’s a face kingdoms would go to war over.  Dude-sel’s eyes are this intense, ridiculous blue that Dean’s fairly certain he’d drown in. If the guy wasn’t squinting so hard Dean would be able to confirm whether or not they’re sapphire or some other incredibly blue gem.  (Tanzanite, maybe?  Dean hasn’t used a rock tumbler since he was seven and Shurley isn’t exactly a descriptive Dungeonmaster—sue him.)  Regardless, Dean knows that a dragon would hoard the fuck out of eyes like that and—

 _Oh, wow, maybe not,_ he thinks.   _That sounds less nerd and more serial killer._

“Dean,” Charlie hisses.

“What?” he asks, still mesmerized by the tan man with deep brown hair and bright red running shorts who’s decided to stare at him and _holy shit those_ eyes—

“Are you gonna help tall, dark, and dreamy over there or are you waiting for an invitation to Starfleet?”

“Permission to join the away party, Captain,” Dean mumbles.

Charlie grabs his arm and jerks him to his feet.  She shoves him forward and says, “Boldly go, Cadet.”

Dean’s chainmail half-shirt jingles a bit as he stumbles forward on the pavement.  He quickly catches himself (though it may involve some arm-waving for balance) and assumes his usual suave, cocky stride.  Dean Winchester may be a hopeless nerd, but dammit, he’s a hopeless nerd with a high Charisma score.

Unfortunately, Dude-sel’s is astronomically higher.  His genetics took Skill Focus in being fucking fuckable.  Now that Dean’s closer, what seemed like messy hair is perfectly post-sex mussed.  His lips are full and pink and Dean is suddenly thinking of all the places in his dungeon he’d like those to crawl and—

_Wait, no, that’s a terrible analogy.  Jesus, man, pull yourself together._

It’s okay.  Things are under control.  Dean has on his favorite leather shirt and his best-quality many-buckled bracers.  He’s also wearing a padded gambeson in case this somehow goes south, but it won’t, because he is Jen of Acklesia, Defender of the Realm, Right Hand of the Queen, _et cetera_ and _ad nauseum._  He puffs his chest out a little more, holds his head up a little higher, and leans over to rescue Dude-sel.

And suddenly, he’s very glad for that gambeson, because Dude-sel, in spite of his obvious non-participant status, had readied an action.  Dean yelps as an angry elbow connects with the back of his knee and he pitches forward into the grass.  The next thing he knows, Dude-sel’s flipped him and is sitting on him, looming over him, squeezing his sides with his legs—and Dean is really, _really_ trying not to think about how muscled and toned those thighs looked not even a minute ago, honest to God, he is _trying_ —and sliding Dean’s own sword under his chin and across his throat, gripping it firmly with both hands.

Well.  He’s effectively on his back beneath a hot stranger in the middle of a park.  Sam’s going to accuse him of mixing up reality with porn again, he’s fucking sure of it.

“Handmaiden!” Charlie shouts from across the sidewalk moat.  “Are you injured?”

“It’s cool,” Dean says.  “I got this.”  And really, he does.  Dean’s arms are free, albeit held in front of him like he’s fucking Raptor Mom or something, and it’s not like the guy’s going to skewer him with a NERF sword.  Besides, Her Majesty knows he’s gotten out of worse.

“I’m going for back-up!” Dean hears her yell as she turns tail and runs toward camp.

“Yeah,” Dean says half-heartedly, “yeah, you do that.”

There’s an awkward pause after she scampers off.  Dean knows that Shurley would be hitting the crickets on the soundboard just about now.  He can’t stand silence for long, so he decides to break the ice.

“I’m a little insulted,” he says.  “Most people take me to dinner first.”

“I don’t know who you are,” says Dude-sel, who is apparently _not_ in distress, “and frankly, I don’t care, but you are going to tell me why you attacked me.”

Dean frowns.  “Attacked you?  Dude, I didn’t attack you.”

“You _threw a sword_ at me.”

“What?  No, no, you’ve got it all wrong, I—”  Dean cuts off his own sentence with an undignified squawk because, okay, maybe Jen of Acklesia’s not as in control of this situation as he thought he was if the foam pushing into his neck is any indication.  Which he’s fairly certain it is.

“It _hit me_ in the _chest.”_

“I was trying to—”

“It _knocked me_ to the _ground,”_ Dude-sel continues, and Dean is absolutely, one-hundred-percent ignoring the sheer sex that radiates off of his voice because this is _not the goddamn time calm down!_

“I don’t really think my sword is heavy enough to have knocked you ov—”

“Fine, you startled me into sitting.  I might ask you to pardon the exaggeration if you hadn’t just _swung a sword in my general direction.”_

“This is a horrible misunderstanding,” Dean says, carefully and quietly, and prays to any of the core rulebook gods listening that Dude-sel succeeds his Sense Motive check.  “My sword got stuck on a branch.  I was just trying to pull it free, I swear.  You weren’t in my line-of-sight.”

The sword pulls away slightly and Dude-sel leans back.  “That…  That does make more sense than someone maliciously lobbing a hunk of hard foam at me, yes.”

“I don’t hit on people for no reason,” says Dean.

“It’s just that my glasses fell off,” the man says, lowering the sword completely and letting his arms drop to his sides.  “All I get are colors.  I didn’t even _see_ a bush.”

“Well, hey, let me up and I’ll help you find them?”

Dude-sel rolls off to sit in the grass, and Dean sits up himself.

“Are you always this friendly with strangers who incapacitate you needlessly?” asks Dude-sel.

“No,” Dean says with a laugh as he stands up and brushes himself off, “you are definitely the first.  Any other situation, you’d be lookin’ for teeth, but I did kinda fling a sword at you, so.  Y’know.”  Dean shrugs.  “Water under the bridge.”

“That’s very magnanimous of you.”

It takes a few minutes of searching but Dean eventually finds the lost glasses, thick-lensed and black-framed.  He hoists Dude-sel to his feet and puts them in his hands.  Dude-sel’s shoulders slump in relief as he unfolds them and starts carefully wiping the lenses with his shirt.

“AC/DC,” Dean says, gesturing at Dude-sel’s gray tee.  “Good taste.”

Dude-sel squints down at his chest and says, “I’m not sure what ‘taste’ has to do with electricity.  Tasting current seems a terribly unwise idea.”

“Sure,” says Dean, completely at a loss.  “Of course it is.”

“I must have accidentally borrowed this shirt from my brother this morning,” Dude-sel continues, holding a lens up to an eye to see if the smudges are cleared.  “I have a bad habit of not noticing what I’m wearing.”

“Oh yeah, I live with my brother, too,” Dean says, smiling.  “Can’t borrow his clothes though; he’s a fucking hill giant.”

Dude-sel holds his arms out to the side, letting the baggy shirt hang loosely.  “This is hardly my size.”

“I’d think you wore that size all the time, man.  Didn’t encumber you for a second when we were...Actually,” Dean asks, “did you take Blind Fight as a feat or something because…?”

“I have four older brothers,” says Dude-sel as he gives his glasses a final appraisal and adjusting the legs.  “It was vital to learn to defend myself no matter the situation.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” _Yeah,_ Dean thinks, _I’d also bet you have more backstory than a George R. R. Martin character.  Though hopefully one with an intact dick._

“Yes,” Dude-sel adds, “if they’d never taught me to defend myself, our elder sister would have destroyed us all.  Weakest link, you know.”

Dean nods.   _The whole series.  Right now.  I’ve already checked it out._

“Anyway, thank you.”  Dude-sel pushes his glasses into place.  He stares at Dean again, like he’s boring into Dean’s soul, and it’s unnerving as fuck, feels like he’s being assessed rather than appreciated.

“You stare a lot,” Dean says.   _Please don’t wait six years between books.  I need to get between your sheets yesterday._

“You’re very beautiful,” explains Dude-sel.  “Even when you were just molecules and out to get me.”

Dean’s internal running commentary rolls a nat one and trips and falls on its own innuendo; there are no survivors.

“Oh,” says Dean as he completely botches his Bluff check to not blush like a fool.

“You were beautiful but irritating,” Dude-sel continues.  “Now you’re just irritatingly beautiful.”

“Oh,” says Dean again.  He rolls the dice a third time, searching for some string of equally-smooth words with which to redeem himself.  Instead, he successfully notices that he has feet.  

“Shit,” Dude-sel says, “I’m being too forward.  Quite possibly creepy.  Gabriel says my ‘people skills’ are ‘rusty’.  It’s what comes of a career of writing obituaries, I suppose.  Most of the individuals I get to know are already gone.  Regardless, I apologize for making you so obviously uncomfortable.”

“No!” says Dean quickly.  “No, I’m just used to being the flirt _er,_ not the flirt _ee._  I have literally no idea what to do on the other side of the DM screen.”   _Especially with guys.  Really, really smoking hot guys.  Smoking hot guys that can take me down like nobody’s business.  Smoking hot guys who write obituaries for a living, because that’s apparently on my recommended reading list now._

“It wasn’t a flirtation.  It was a statement of fact.  You _are_ beautiful.”  Dude-sel looks Dean up and down before adding, “And apparently a charactered casualty of the Society for Creative Anachronism.”

Dean gulps.  “Uh, yeah.  No.  I mean.”   _I’m so fucked._

Dude-sel smiles for the first time since they met.  “So are you taken, or are you a freelance handmaiden?”

 _I’m going to commit regicide._  “Yeah,” Dean sighs, “Her Majesty thinks she’s hilarious.  Do you want the whole spiel or—”

“No,” says Dude-sel.  “Just your number.”

“Man, I don’t even know your _name._  Fuck, you don’t even know _my_ name.”

“My apologies, again.  Skills.  People.  Rusty.”  Dude-sel looks at him somewhat sheepishly—which Dean finds impressive, considering how blunt he’s been thus far—so Dean takes mercy on him and offers his hand palm-up, introducing himself first.

“Dean Winchester.”

“That’s your real name?” Dude-sel asks, taking Dean’s hand with eyebrow raised.  “Because Gabriel—my brother, I mean, he plays these sorts of games online and I believe that his character’s name is longer than the entirety of Deuteronomy.”

“Are you asking about my character?”   _Please don’t be asking about my character._

“I am,” says Dude-sel.

“Seriously?”   _Please don’t be serious._

“Yes.”  Dude-sel’s staring at him again, expectantly this time, and Dean was right; these are, in fact, eyes he could drown in because Dean’s already caught in the whirlpool and sinking fast.

 _Goddammit._  “Is my hair straight?” Dean asks, ending the handshake and pointing at his long blond wig which has, miraculously, stayed mostly in place.  “Besides, I thought you didn’t want the spiel.”

“It’s at least as much as you are.”  Dude-sel picks the NERF longsword up off the ground with a smirk.  “And I’ve changed my mind.”

Dean closes his eyes and motions for the sword.  “I am call—You really want me to do this?”

Dude-sel nods and hands the sword to Dean.  “Consider it recompense.”

Dean stares at his foam blade, shakes his head, and takes a deep breath.  If he’s going to lose a potential date, he’s going to do it in style.

“I am called Jen of Acklesia,” Dean says in a deep, booming voice as he sheathes the blade.  “A Defender of the Realm and Right-Hand of Her Majesty Celeste, First of Her Name, Queen of Moondoor and Bane of the Shadow King.  I am Protector of the Tent-Keep, Hunter of Monsters, Man of Letters, and other things as well.  My sword is mighty,” he continues with a flourish of hand toward the weapon on his hip.  Then, with a wink, he adds, “And so, I hear, is my pen.”

Christ on a cracker, it’s so much easier to be confident when he’s acting.  Dean Winchester’s a dropout who manages a comic book store; he’s successful enough, but largely unknown.  Jen of Acklesia is a _person of interest._  If you look up the Warrior class in the _Official World of Moondoor Live-Action Roleplaying Handbook,_ it’s literally his picture next to the description.

Dean’s a ladykiller but a bumbling awkward fuck with the gents.  Jen of Acklesia though?  Straight men turn their heads and declare him Exception.

He takes a knee and Dude-sel’s hand, gives it the chaste kiss it deserves, and asks, “And what is your name, milord?”

Dean looks up at Dude-sel and silently thanks whatever member of the pantheon that’s currently listening, because Dude-sel’s face is a fetching shade of crimson as he says, “I am called Castiel.”

 _He’s not laughing.  He speaks nerd.  Be still, my fucking heart._  “Castiel…?”

“Milton.  Oh, yes, right.  Titles.  I am…”  Castiel bites his lip as he thinks.  “A Bard for the Fallen.  Um.  Fleet of Foot.  Renter of Condominiums?”

“Worthy titles, indeed,” Dean says with a smile.

“May I have your number _now?”_ Castiel asks.  “Or does Jen of Acklesia have a post to which I may send my fastest pigeon?”

Dean laughs as he gets up.  “Nah, I’ve got a phone.  You have something to write with?”

Castiel pats himself and says, “No, I seem to have left my best quill at the manor.”  He pauses, checking his pockets.  “Also my cell.”

“Here, come back to camp with me, I think we’ve got a spare roll of parchment.  Do you, uh…”  Dean scratches the back of his head beneath his wig.  “Maybe you wanna hang around for a cup of coffee?  Should still be some over at the refreshment tent.”

Castiel opens his mouth to reply but is sideswiped by a beanbag.

“Lightning bolt!” yells a rapidly-approaching voice.  “Lightning bolt, you _fiend!”_

“Hey, assbu— _ow!”_  Castiel throws his arms in front of his face as he’s pelted by another beanbag.

“Unhand the Warrior,” demands his short, cloaked assailant, “in the name of the Queen!”

“Yield, Osric the Bold,” Dean says with a sigh, putting himself between Castiel and his hopping mad friend.  “Kevin, seriously, he’s a plebe, and I’m unhanded.  Chill the fuck out.”

Kevin scowls.  “But Charlie said you were being held hostage by a ruffian.”

“Dean threw a sword at me,” says Castiel, peeping out from behind Dean’s shoulder.  “And I would only hand him if he was amenable.”

“Ugh, TMI for TS,” Charlie says with disgust as she makes her way out of the bushes, accompanied by a taller, mulleted man.  “Seriously, Ash, you’re a Paladin.  Why aren’t you protecting my ears?”

“‘Predict Innuendo’ isn’t on my spell list, _amigo.”_

“Okay, fair,” she concedes.  “Hey, wait a minute.  Kevin, how are you using lightning bolts?  You’re a Cleric.”

“...I have a scroll?”  Kevin pulls at the neck of his cowl, looking nervous.

“Pretty sure you still can’t read it,” says Ash.  “Hang on, lemme check before we go and hunt down a marshal.”  He holds his shield away from his body and starts flipping through the pages of the manual attached to the back.

“I mean, of course he can’t,” says Charlie, “he can only cast divine spells.”

“No harm in lookin’ it up, little leader.”

“But we don’t _need_ to!” she says through her teeth.  “He’s obviously cheating!”

“Oh, right,” Kevin says, rolling his eyes, “because gods know you’ve _never_ fudged your stats.”

Ash snaps to attention and draws his sword.  “Are you questioning the virtue of the leader you’ve sworn to protect?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, gosh, guys, it’s cool,” Charlie says, trying to diffuse the situation.  “Dean questions my gaming ethics twenty-four-seven.  Besides, the war’s out there!”

“Nay, milady,” Ash says solemnly, “he hath not only offended thee, but broken the law in my presence.  I must uphold my sworn oath.”

“Lightning bolt!” Kevin squeals as he throws a beanbag at Ash.

“Dean?” Castiel asks after a few rounds of squabble-watching and rules-arguing.

“Yeah?”

“I think a cup of coffee sounds excellent.”

 

* * *

 

“You’ve had a lot of shit ideas, Winchester,” Charlie says as she and Dean walk toward camp, “but this is, by far, the worst.  I mean, you’ve been dating the guy for like, two months—”

“Three months,” Dean corrects.

“—and you’re bringing him into the game?  Way to break the no inner-party romance home rule.”

“You set the precedent,” says Dean.  “Remember Gilda?”

“Who could forget,” she says.  “And bad example, since that went up in _actual smoke.”_

“Yeah, well, Cas is different.  Besides, we need a monk.”

Charlie sighs.  “You aren’t wrong. Though I still think you two are more likely to run off and fuck in the bushes than actually play the game.”

“No worries,” Dean says with a wide grin, “we’ll stay in character no matter what.”

“Ew, _gross,”_ says Charlie, shuddering.  “Just what I needed, a mental image of a man of the cloth bumping uglies with my handmaiden.”

“Think of it as a proximity alarm,” he suggests.  “If you hear me groan ‘Steve’, you’ll know the coast is clear.”

“Clear, yet still horribly unsafe,” Charlie says.  “But—”

“I’m not Steve anymore,” says Castiel from Dean’s side.

 _“Sweet mother of Hagrid!”_ Charlie swears.  “Need to put a bell on you, geez.”

Dean just laughs and swings an arm around Castiel’s shoulder.  “Where the fuck did you come from, babe?”

“My parents,” Castiel says in all seriousness.  “That’s basic biology, Dean.”

“No, I mean—goddammit, nevermind.  So why’d you decide to change your name?”

“Well it’s not like ‘Steve’ was very creative,” Charlie says.

“Better than Ash’s at least,” says Dean.  “Naming your character after yourself’s just lazy.”

“True that.”

“So what’s the new name?” Dean asks Castiel.  “I know ‘Jimmy’ was on the short list, as was Emm—”

“It’s ‘Misha’.”

Dean stops dead in his tracks.  “Your name’s Misha.”

“Yes,” Castiel says over his shoulder as he keeps pace with Charlie, leaving Dean’s arm to fall back down to his side.

_“Misha?”_

**Author's Note:**

> The accompanying photoset for this fic can be found [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/124417097009/larp-interrupted-by-shiphitsthefan-3-5k-words). If you liked this story, I would greatly appreciate your reblogging it.
> 
> You can find me on my [Tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


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